High School Evil
by marblelaina
Summary: She's the wingless angel, and she's found Hell in another misfit amongst once-fits. AU, 2013 movieverse.
1. Prologue: One More Year

**DISCLAIMER: I don't own the rights to Carrie or Jennifer's Body, but can I own the rights to Jennifer's body? (gets zapped by Satanic lightning!) Okay, I deserved that.**

* * *

Margaret's voice rose above the radio's muddle of static and Positive 89.3: "For this cause I bow my knees unto the Father of our Lord Jesus Christ, of whom the whole family in Heaven and Earth is named, that He would grant you, according to the riches of His Glory, to be strengthened with might by His Spirit in the Inner Man."

Carrie did not recognize the rest of her mother's spiel, as there was a thick fog condensing her train of thought. Tomorrow's the March to Zion, the Final Judgement, the Trial led by Pontius Pilate—Carrie would've preferred to call it the First Day of School, but her mother wouldn't allow such a simplified lexicon. They hadn't shopped for supplies like most families do; her mother salvaged her daughter's scathed binders and made sure to wash her many shirt-waist dresses. Carrie tried not to show her dismay, but if her smile didn't appear as genuine as she'd hoped, her mother didn't notice.

Part of her looked forward to school starting, as this would be her Final Judgement (or, as most teenagers call it, Senior Year). One more year, one more thrust into the social confluence that had rejected her long ago. It would be one more year of the Hargensen party, as well as the Nolan party, and their vicious sneers would merely be temporary. However, an inkling of brooding knowledge became acquainted with her: even in her last walk of life, the feeling of not belonging was now elongated.

_Jocund vulgarity, secret smiles in a school assembly while Principal Grayle produced an optimistic façade; assignments graded based on the student rather than the source material; teachers that will never listen unless it's an examination of graphs that document world population and food supply; an incessant need to shock, and the shock that you feel when you can't go through with it; snickers, pinches, and maybe a book flung here and there for better effect; crying in the locker room, holding the cross necklace that provides no comfort, let alone the belief in a Savior—_

"Carrie?" Margaret touched Carrie's shoulder, causing her to flinch. She looked up at her mother and blinked hazily, like she had treaded through a bathhouse and the hot water was still weighing down on her. "Carrie, were you even listening?"

"Yes, Momma. Ephesians, right?"

"Yes." Margaret nodded, pleased, but curt. "Seventeen through eighteen. You recite those verses and I'll read the last one."

"Okay, Momma." Carrie knotted her hands together, probing through the clutters of Biblical verses in her mind. "That Christ may dwell in your hearts by faith; that ye, being rooted and grounded in love, may be able to comprehend with all saints what is the breadth, and length, and depth, and height."

Margaret smiled, and murmured, "And to know the love of Christ, which passeth knowledge, that ye might be filled with all the fulness of God. Amen."

"A-amen." Carrie stuttered, pressing her shaking hands against her mouth. When Margaret uncoiled from her prayer, Carrie didn't reciprocate; she remained locked and shivering. Margaret, acknowledging this, plodded towards her and wrapped her into a tight hug.

"Carrie," Margaret whispered, kissing her daughter's forehead, "what's wrong, sweetie?"

"N-nothing, Momma." Carrie said, trying to relax her tense muscles. "I'm just nervous about school, I guess."

"Humble yourselves, therefore, under God's mighty hand, that He may lift you up in due time," Margaret spoke, searching for an enigmatic quality that she knew wasn't there. "Cast all your anxiety on Him because He cares for you."

Carrie was partially rankled by her mother's monotonous quotes, but the authenticity of her words provided enough comfort. Carrie rested her head against her mother's neck as Margaret stroked her daughter's hair. The concordance with the misfits and the once-fits was solidified in Sixth Grade, but Carrie was only happy to know that she would soon be rid of Ewen High and everything else would be rendered null and void.

Carrie withdrew from Margaret's arms, kissed her cheek, and made her way upstairs. She went to her bedroom and locked the door, trying to discard the pious melodies that hummed from downstairs. _One more year_, she told herself, and she left it at that.

* * *

**A/N: Before anyone panics over the story being deleted and angrily PMs me about it, just know that I'm reposting it on my new account. I don't know why, but I just kind of lost interest in my last account because it's cluttered with a bunch of stuff that, to be honest, isn't my best work. It kind of felt like because of personal issues, I just ended up putting filler on there rather than really flexing my creative spirit. So, I'm starting fresh on this account!**

**And, of course, I wasn't going to possibly leave out arguably my most popular fic to date. Many people have messaged me about how much they love this story, and I have quite a few fans (boys? girls? idk what my target demographic is) that have asked me about whether or not this fic will ever be done. I'm sorry if I seemed irritated whenever that happened because I don't want to sound ungrateful. I'm honestly really surprised this fic has a following at all, and I'm glad I'm not the only one who loves this concept. I just hate feeling like I let people down because life gets in the way and I have to focus on that first rather than update a story I'm writing for fun.**

**So, the prologue is up, and I'll quickly post the first three chapters. I gotta message the followers of this story first to let them know where they can find it. I'll post these soon, and the fourth chapter will be posted some time in May.**

**peace xx**


	2. 1: School Protocol

**DISCLAIMER: I don't own the rights to **_**Carrie **_**or **_**Jennifer's Body**_**.**

**(insert your own witty, adorkable joke here because I'm too fucking lazy)**

* * *

When the car stopped and Carrie took a good look at Ewen High, she thought that the school had grown monstrously over the summer. In retrospect, nothing seemed out of place. A gaudy welcome back banner hung from the roof, and it appeared that Billy had already vandalized it. Carrie wasn't known for sardonic humor, but nothing looked more welcoming than being told in thick, childish scrawls to go fuck yourself.

"That's _far_ from dutiful," Margaret chuckled, leaning over to peck Carrie's cheek. "I'll pick you up after school. I have a quick errand at the pharmacy to make, and then we'll be on our way home."

"Yes, Momma." Carrie opened the door and stepped out. A throng of girls set their eyes on her. One of them sniggered and made a rude gesture; the rest saved the trouble and laughed. Carrie gingerly shut the door behind her and ventured forward, trying to shy away from the nameless somebodies.

* * *

Only ten minutes spent walking into the gymnasium, and already a cluster of renewed terminology: _Hey there, cow-ass, how's the Holy—bet she knows how to find God—who art in Hell, rotted be her—oh God, oh God—bet you five bucks she'd do it for a Klondike—ten bucks she'd take it—we've sure missed YOU, Carrie—_

Carrie cringed, padding up the bleachers. It wasn't more than twenty strides, and the regretful sluice had already flooded her head. As she tried to claim a seat on the bleachers, Chris Hargensen shouldered her out of her way and sat down. The girls near Hargensen turned their attention towards Carrie and Chris, their interest piqued.

"What?" Chris smirked, running a blithe hand through her hair. "I already gave at the office. Judging by that shit-stained dress, it wasn't enough."

The girls marveled at Chris's retort and joined in, sticking out their lower lips and practicing their mock-whimpering. Carrie shook her head and walked further up, finding a solitary spot on the highest bleacher. She ignored Chris's fierce glance and held her cross necklace in her hand. She reminded herself to put it on later.

Principal Grayle stepped in front of podium, clearing his throat near the microphone. "Welcome back to Ewen High! It's great to see all of your smiling faces again."

The forced artfulness in his voice was admittedly awkward, but some of the students remained silent while Grayle shuffled through his back-to-school announcements. Tina Blake thumbed at her iPhone while he was mumbling, and snickered at a text she received from her friends; Norma Watson made a face at a distant jock, tonguing the piece of gum that was flattened against her palate.

Grayle shot his head up and said tersely, "Alright, all students that are sitting up the highest, please come down. The teachers taking attendance can't see you."

The only seemingly significant student that was sitting up the highest was Carrie, but the broadness of his statement didn't alienate her. The others groaned and complied, and as Carrie made her way down the steps, she felt Norma's gum bounce off of her face and tangle into a few strands of hair. When she glanced at Norma, she immediately floundered at the sight of irate recognition replacing commonplace humor. She sat down and was greeted by Tina's curled sneer. Even though she jerked towards Chris's ear, Carrie could hear the faintest whisper of _she's gotta ruin everything_.

Gotta ruin everything? Carrie could make a few dresses and memorize her Latin phrases, but she's gotta ruin everything. Carrie simply shrugged, bit the inside of her cheek, and put on her cross necklace, making sure to look down to ignore the girls' dagger-eyes.

"Quick update on faculty news," Grayle said, lolling over each syllable. "We've installed new computers in the library, and we're now monitoring what websites you click on. So, if a student logs into a computer and searches for inappropriate material, the student will be reprimanded immediately."

"Suck those titties!" George Dawson catcalled, fondling his nipples through his T-shirt. A roar of laughter greeted the large gymnasium. One of the English Composition teachers, Mr. Ulmann, shushed him and scribbled his name onto a small notepad.

"That's enough, Dawson," Grayle said, smiling a little at the light humor. "For lunch today, we're serving vegetable lasagna as part of our Calorie Crusher program, which was initiated over summer by our benevolent lunch lady, Mrs. Vattin. Let's give her a round of applause this morning."

There was a reluctant silence, followed by a quick billow of school-assembly cheerfulness. Mrs. Vattin took a bow and nodded, hiding her embarrassed smile. She was a portly woman with more knots and blotched dye atop her head than hair. Chris had made those kind of comments before, and she reiterated them to another Ultra, resulting in an obedient laugh.

"We will have a Jamboree Celebration after school at five o'clock in order to send our football team off on a path to victory against Ashland tonight. Be sure to come by in order to support our team! In other news, we have a new student joining our fine educational facility."

"Probably another fatass from the sticks," Chris muttered, rolling her eyes. "Bring it on, Grayle."

"She's from Massachusetts and she's here for her Senior Year. Please give a warm, Ewen welcome to our new student: Jennifer Check."

It wasn't until Jennifer Check stepped into the gym that the crowd was badly stirred. Even Carrie perked at the sight of her. Jennifer was an unusually beautiful girl. Her hair was styled with an uneven fluff; her eyebrows were arched and amused, accentuated by a pair of sharp, blue eyes. She was dressed in a full outfit—she wore a black sweater along with slacks and pumps—but she somehow managed to convey her svelte body through those thick garments.

She walked up to the podium and shook Grayle's hand. Grayle let out a businesslike chuckle. "Say hello to the crowd, Jennifer."

Jennifer didn't pay Grayle any mind. She just eyed the microphone, keeping her hands by her side like a disobedient child being called front and center.

Grayle nodded considerately, motioning his hand at the bleachers. "Okay, I get it. You can go find yourself a seat. You don't have to talk in front of everyone."

Jennifer nodded, mouthed a quiet thank you, and made her way to the bleachers. She sat in the very front, ignoring her incongruity amongst more eminent teenagers. Carrie blinked at her a few times, unsure of what she was fixated on. She was unsure if she was analyzing her looks or her personality, because it's rare for a teenager (especially a New Girl) to somehow walk in showing off both.

Chris, noticing who Carrie was staring at, gagged and turned to Tina. "Seriously? She's got a wetty for the new girl?"

Carrie ignored the subtle jeer, fumbling the cross in her hand. She gulped, feeling an intense pain in her head. She believed it to be the backlash from trekking through the river of sexts and powdered doughnuts, but this felt like longing. The best way to describe it was a longing to make something happen, even though nothing was happening. _Maybe it's just a headache,_ Carrie thought. _It'll go away._

She glanced up once, twice, and heard Grayle dismiss the students to homeroom in order to receive their First Day Syllabi. In spite of her adamant disbelief, Carrie thought that she saw Jennifer eyeing her as well.

* * *

**A/N: So, yeah. Today sucked. ._.**

**But there are some positives today brought in! I'm all caught up on online schoolwork, I ate some Pizza Hut, and I kept a list of people who followed my fics, so when I repost them, I'll be sure to let them know. :)**

**I wish I had some sort of witty outro or things of the like, but I'm honestly exhausted. This has been a day full of anxiety and mood swings, and I need to go to bed before I short-circuit. Sleep well, everyone!**

**peace xx**


	3. 2: Under the Radar

**DISCLAIMER: **_**Carrie **_**and **_**Jennifer's Body**_ **doesn't belong to any of us, and if we say so, Carrie will make the stones come back. O.O**

* * *

Carrie realized long ago that the best advantage from being a misfit is being able to actually _see_ anything around her. Most people could see the clouds roll over their heads or the strands of hair blow into their faces; they could see dirty messages, discarded homework assignments, and obscene fingers pointing at each other. They could see the physical form of bullshit, but not the metaphysical truths as to why it's bullshit.

The popular kids could only see, but Carrie White could _see_.

However, she was smart enough to never share this information with anyone. She was smart enough to hold her own and pretend that they couldn't notice. A part of her hated herself for that because she knew they were there. She knew about their established regulation towards people like her, but somehow, coexisting without giving them recognition would be as sinful as disregarding the latest gossip found on Page 23.

Carrie never wanted to turn to Page 23, but she could already visualize the content. It would be what her Momma described as "the Jackal's dance", cluttered with all types of scantiness, both in clothing and in faith. The blackness of curiosity brewed inside of her, and Carrie's mind often strayed towards images of herself dressed in such lingerie. The images of her swathed in sheathes of lace and silk that left little to the imagination sickened her, and she would often cry about it when Momma sent her to the closet to pray; but it was hard to ignore the thought of looking at herself in the mirror, seeing her svelte figure, and snickering about the fact that Chris gained almost fifteen pounds over the summer.

In fact, it amazed Carrie how low the girls thought of themselves when they weren't wearing scarlet letters just for being glanced at. Carrie vaguely remembered hearing a slew of gossip about how seventy-three percent of the guys at Ewen rated Tina Blake as "Not" rather than "Hot" on a nameless social-networking site. Of course, the conversation ventured into restless tirades against her, but the look on Tina's face was a Kodak moment. That same day, Heather had to get down to brass tacks in regards to anorexia rumors about them, and the Watson twins were accused of sleeping with Hisao, a foreign exchange student that was sent to a different community after gaining a reputation for wanting a nice piece of _ketsu_. Carrie also remembered a day when Norma Watson ran into the bathroom, crying for hours upon end because a rumor about her sleeping with a throng of popular jocks had caught fire, and none of her "besties" defended her against the Ultras' wrath. Carrie wanted to comfort those girls whenever they went under the knife, but she also reveled in their tears because, in the twinkling of an eye, they knew what it was like to be her: always feeling hopeless in a series of dusty, yellow shadows.

(of course nothing ever happens to big bitch chris break her break her once)

Having these resentful thoughts felt very uncharacteristic of her, but it became a leaden weight her thoughts bore like a cross, as if to mollify the gaping hole in her self-image. Carrie found that the key instinct to survive was to hold a grudge, in spite of the passive smile she tried to give over the years. How else could the ringleader and her contortionists have constructed this grandiose circus over the years in order to appease the masses? Carrie understood too well how it felt to be lion and wanting to roar or snap her mouth around the self-imposed pundit's head...maybe someday?

So, Carrie kept these personal laws intact when she braved through the last First Day. The weight of inadequacy kept her head down and her shoulders slumped, but the ache felt peculiarly light today. She read the syllabi for her classes, and she also read the comments some classmates wrote on the back of them. Carrie expressed slight humor towards their lack of grammatical insight rather than their vivid impudence. She enjoyed a green apple and a bottle of water for lunch while some of the guys tossed potato chips at her, oinking fervently. She combed all the crumbs out of her hair in the bathroom before Fifth Period Economics, and in that class, it wasn't more than ten minutes before Chris called attention to the class in order alert them of a certain greasy nun that entered the room. She was reminded of that status for the rest of the day, and when Momma finally picked her up at the end of the day, she didn't come to a proper conclusion as to how her day was.

The only thing that piqued Carrie's interest was how the New Girl, Jennifer Check, hardly hung around the popular people. She didn't attend lunchtime with the Ultras or their Mortimer Snerds. Jennifer refused to speak when called upon, and she didn't socialize during Free Period. Carrie heard Jennifer throwing up in the restroom while she was combing the crumbs out of her hair. Throughout the jungle of sneering faces, Jennifer glanced at her often, but Carrie never discovered any materialistic malice in her eyes. If anything, Jennifer actually looked pleasant towards her. The piece of evidence that made Carrie come to this conclusion was how every time Jennifer caught her glance, she simply smiled and waved.

* * *

**A/N: (of **_**course **_**my Internet almost went out when I tried to post this -_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _-)**

**Errrrrgh, short chapter. Yeah, I know transition chapters can be kinda dry, and this is one of my least favorite chapters in this entire story, but I thought that if it just cut to Jennifer and Carrie talking outside in Car Circle, it'd be pretty jarring. Like, okay, what happened that day? Did anyone torment Carrie? Did Jennifer make the moves on anyone at Ewen High? Did Jennifer taunt Carrie like the rest of the goddamn jackass students, or did she just do her own thing? I thought a chapter kind of detailing how Carrie can manage to put on a happy face (or, as happy as religious fundamentalism can be) while high school shit continues to pile up would be decent enough. I felt like it mimicked Stephen King's writing style in a way, as does the parenthetic, stream-of-consciousness style of writing.**

**Speaking of high school shit, I think there are some overdue lessons I must tend to before taking my AP Bio and Art History exam. :o**

**I will tend to that first, and once I am done with that, I will post the third chapter! I wanna make sure I'm not overwhelming everyone with updates. Take care!**

**peace xx**


	4. 3: Gumchewer

**DISCLAIMER: Well, you already know.**

* * *

_One day down_, Carrie thought, standing in the parking lot near Car Circle. Most Seniors were driving by now, but Carrie still fancied her mother's AMC Gremlin over the lavishness of a Jag or a Mustang. Chris shoved her way past her and leapt into Billy's arms, glazing his lips with sloppy kisses. However, while Chris nuzzled against his neck, Billy craned his head towards Carrie and winked at her. Carrie felt the disgusting pang in her head and decided to find a place to—

"Hey!"

Carrie hitched, shivering at the loud voice. The options now: A jeer? A trick? Even a beating? No, it was a hand that rested on her shoulder and turned her around slightly. Carrie, through the frayed blonde waves that teased her face, blushed when she saw who it was.

Jennifer smirked, popping her gum. "Hey. Why the long face, Dopey?"

"Ohuh?" Carrie felt herself plunging again. One instinct told her to run off now, just run off to Momma, cry in her arms, and go home to the Angry Lord. It seemed to be the safest option. However, Carrie remembered the way Jennifer waved at her, and looking at her now, there was an ineluctable edge to her now. Her hair curtained her tight bosom, her face was fresh with lipstick, and a wad of Peppermint Bliss was smudged into the floor of her tongue.

Jennifer smiled and led her to a nearby bench. Sitting down, she said, "C'mon, I was just kidding. You're really not that Dopey-looking. I've seen you 'round all day, but you haven't even said hi to me."

"I'm sorry," Carrie muttered.

"Nah. No sorry." Jennifer sat down next to Carrie. She fished through her pockets for a thin packet of gum and extended a strip towards Carrie's face. "Want a piece?"

A little green rectangle limped in between Jennifer's fingers—Carrie studied it as if it were an ancient artifact from _Indiana Jones_. The spread of crystals didn't intrigue her, but it was the foreign gesture itself. While transfixed, Jennifer gave her a rude smile, reached out with the other hand, and prodded her finger through Carrie's lips. Naturally, the girl floundered, letting out an anticlimactic sound, but snapped back when Jennifer slid the gum into her mouth.

"Now. Chew." Jennifer nodded, patronizing, yet sweet.

As Carrie reciprocated, a familiar voice thundered in the distance, making her shrink again: "Hey, Carrie! Tryna munch Check's rug?"

The fugue state of humiliation set in, but it only came as a passing breeze when Jennifer hailed back, "Eat shit, Hargensen!"

Carrie's eyes reached full capacity, as did the uproarious hisses from Chris's posse. Chris expressed mild shock through the form of slit, seething eyes at Billy, who was in hysterics. As she turned to Jennifer, an instinctive spark clicked in her mind as she started chewing the gum. "You really didn't have to do that."

"Yeah, I did. She was bein' a bitch."

"She's _always_ mean."

Jennifer rolled her eyes, but a plaintive tangent brewed after a sharp pop of a bubble. She sighed, popping her knuckles against her chin. "Lemme guess, she's hot for you, isn't she?"

Carrie quailed. "I beg your pardon?"

"She's _quite _the homophobe 'round these halls…I spent the whole day watching her every step, and all the bitch does is rattle off about how this girl is ugly and that girl is too fat and oh every freakgirl wants to friggin' scissor one another…methinks she doth protest too much."

"Oh." Carrie felt the pangs come back, but there was a curious humor that coiled up her spine. Perhaps that's why she asked, "Have you ever…?"

When Jennifer tilted her head away from her, Carrie felt dumb shame curtain her lungs. However, with a burlesque tone of voice, Jennifer smirked, "I'm a fan of both teams, yes."

"Uhhhh…"

"Aren't you?"

"Oh, no!" Carrie said, pallid as ever. "Momma would lock me in the closet if I did that."

"Ehh, she'll get over it."

"No…" Carrie's eyes watered in a fit of pique. "She wouldn't."

Silence hung over them for a moment, with Carrie trying to ignore Jennifer's stoic investigation. A familiar rumble cackled in the distance, and she felt the rusted, bloodied nails in her palms again. With a clumsy stride, Carrie stood up and turned back to Jennifer. "Momma's here already. Thank you for the gum. It was really sweet."

Jennifer, with another lackadaisical pop: "Sure thing."

Margaret's car was inching closer to the pick-up, but before the Christian voices in Carrie's heart begged her to flee, she tightened her cheeks, puckered her lips, and spat out the gum by accident. Another curtain-fall came over her, but it was halted by Jennifer's harsh laughter.

"Jesus Christ, you suck at blowing bubbles." While the froth of chuckles continued, Jennifer reached into her pocket, pulled out a slip of paper, and placed it in Carrie's hand. "Here. Call me if you wanna hit me up at the Jamboree tonight, okay?"

The blue-ink scrawl didn't galvanize Carrie's response, nor did the novel discovery of what seven digits even looked like. It was the way Jennifer's nails grazed over her palm, and she didn't feel anything break the skin. Looking at Jennifer's hand, Carrie whispered, "Okay."

* * *

**A/N: I had to repost and reformat this entire chapter all because I made one gODDAMN EDIT REGARDING WHAT CAR MARGARET DRIVES AND THE ENTIRE FORMAT LOSES ITS FUCKING MIND AAAAAAAAAARGH**—

***slaps myself* Sorry. Aspie tantrum done. I'll post the fourth chapter in a bit, and...yeah. ._.**

**peace xx**

**(**_**addendum**_**: and by "a bit", I mean at least a week or a month. :p)**


	5. 4: Darkly Glass

**DISCLAIMER: Carrie owns Jennifer's body, and...I have NO shame for that joke! XD**

* * *

Margaret took Carrie to a church picnic once. There was a chaste array of summer dresses, pasta salads, and Sonoma Coast Chardonnay. Carrie was six at the time, timid and fully aware of her mother's detest for local church gatherings, citing them as "Devil bait". However, while playing with the wooden tops she found in the children's area (and not minding the other children ducking her out of fear when they spun by themselves), she noticed how her mother mingled with the other churchgoers. They blessed the scars on her arms, complimented her messy bun, and talked about how fun it would be if Carrie participated in Children's Time on Sunday. When they went home, Margaret fed the girl a hearty meal, prayed with her once, and tucked her in at bedtime. No beatings, no sermons—the closet door was finally locked—but the most devastating blow came the next day when Margaret declared they'd never go back to that church again.

While Margaret served Carrie Chef Boyardee and salad greens, Carrie asked, "How come we never went back to St. Diamond?"

Margaret, setting the milk glasses on each coaster, chuckled. "Why do you ask such a silly question?"

"I'm sorry. I was just wondering."

Margaret swiped at her fingers with a napkin, walked to the radio in a few hurried strides, and clicked through various stations. She reached Positive 89.3 once, but seemed more interested in the creaking knobs rather than the search itself. Carrie prodded at her ravioli with her fork once, but disgust welled up at how her meal seemed to bubble up from a moory puddle of tomato sauce.

A blare of static ripped through the speakers like a flame. Carrie flinched from the harsh noise, believing that she heard a mixture of alternative music and Hot 100 hits trying to pass through the strident barrier. However, Margaret slouched before it, mumbling inconsistencies that became clearer as the volume went down.

Carrie didn't know how she turned the volume down if no one touched the knob, but Margaret's words were unmitigated: "—and, through the Darkly Glass, I repent for my sins and the woman-weary curse I bestowed upon my child. It's the groaning sound I hear, the sound of Hell yawning beneath me, ready to take me whole. I rip my flesh apart to expose my desires and weaknesses, and in that, I pray that you deliver us from evil, me and the girl-child with whom he had split her foot as I had split my womanly place for such a man."

The headache came again, as did the peculiar queasiness that fizzed in her ears and pounded against her ribcage. Carrie pressed her thumb against the prongs of her fork, trying to mimic her mother's words; the prong could not pierce through her skin, as the groaning sound became more apparent.

Carrie looked at her mother, who was starting to claw into her arms. The first dime-sized drop dappled the floor. "Momma, are you—?"

"If I am to be the Blind leading the Blind, tell me that I am leading us across a thin line. Remind me of my faults, and I'll watch out for the boneless imps and Devil's whores that reach for my feet. They must burn my feet with coals and disgrace my heels with cuts before they can reach my child as they have reached me."

The volume approached its nadir faster, antenna wobbling. "Momma, please talk to me."

Margaret's hand curled together, and before another dogmatic spiel could froth up from her mouth, the shaking fist connected with her cheek. It left a minor pang, but a few blows to the forehead seemed to work. An unseemly bruise crept across the sallow skin, browning amidst the purple blemish. Three more marks dug through her left arm, daubing her yellowed, untrimmed nails.

"These marks…these scratches I left on his back," Margaret hummed, a zealous smile cracking her thin, spittle-slimed lips. "I tried my best, but the Something came, and I cried out Your Name in vain. For that, I repent, and I relinquish that Something every day—lust and licentiousness, the cravings of the flesh—"

"_Momma, stop it!"_

The static stopped; the radio clicked off, and the antenna remained stationary. Momma leaned her head back, nauseous and confused moans thrumming through her gaped mouth. After less than a minute of rocking on her knees and swaying around when standing up, she returned, and she looked at Carrie, fearful as ever. The stunning amount of clarity she displayed frightened Carrie even more, as she never recalled Margaret swimming through the latent madness so quickly.

The groaning sounds interjected the dismal tableau.

Margaret wordlessly veered towards the dinner table, forgetting the radio on the shelf. Carrie recalled a distant thought (ravioli disgusting ravioli ravioli no momma no hurt), but she didn't recognize it as her own internal voice. Instead, it sounded like a dismayed child, and it wasn't even Lil' Carietta of White's Past that was whining about the sloppy feast before them. Before Carrie could mull it over, Margaret took the two plates, let out an unsettling cry, and threw them across the room. Undercooked sauce splattered against the adjacent wall, staining the floral wallpaper and dripping onto the aging, linoleum floor.

Carrie, with matronly uneasiness: "Momma…what's wrong?"

Margaret dropped to her knees, bumping against the cabinet doors. "This isn't good! I'm hungry, and this isn't good."

Carrie rose from the table and approached her, caressing her bruised forehead. "But you cooked it earlier."

"No, I didn't! _She _did!"

"Who did?"

"Momma."

Puzzled, Carrie went to get a wet rag from the sink. A sudden thought occurred to her as she dipped her hand into the hot, sudsy water (this has happened before, hasn't it); she shook it away and regarded the situation as calmly and maturely as possible, but still (this is momma this is the not momma that is still momma what do i do).

As Margaret thumped against the drawers and tried to close one of the doors on her hand, Carrie reached out for her, kneeling down to her level. "No, don't do that. There's no need to hurt yourself."

"She's _mean_," Margaret said, hoarse with anguish. "She doesn't listen."

"I know she doesn't."

"I told her I didn't like it, and she _hissed_ at me."

"I know, but there's no need to throw a tantrum over it. We have salad—do you like salad?"

"Yes. Salad is good."

Carrie turned back, cringing at the mess before her. She reached her arm out to touch the soupy stain with the rag, but a gentle hand touched her elbow. She flinched back, fearing those poached-eggs eyes were glaring at her again. However, Margaret's face was now slack, smiling with tranquil affection.

Her voice, exhaustedly sweet: "Don't worry, child. I'll clean this up for you."

"Momma, are you sure you're OK?"

"I'm fine. Just eat your salad greens. I'll take it from here."

Carrie, noticing the groan subsiding, nodded and made her way to the table. As Margaret worked mercilessly on the mess, she ate a few crisp pieces of lettuce. It settled into the nest of her stomach, but her appetite was assuaged. She only stuck to drinking her milk instead.

"It's a shame when your mother does this," Margaret said, shaking her head with good humor. "So, how was school today?"

"It was…OK?" Carrie mumbled.

"Please speak up. I can't hear you."

"School was decent. I really didn't talk to anyone today."

"Awh. You look like you could be anybody's friend." Margaret paused, wiping the sweat off of her forehead, and a look of mock-amazement crossed her face when she saw how clean the floor looked already. "Do you have any homework to do tonight?"

"No. I just need you to sign some syllabuses from my teachers."

"Will do!" Wiping her face again, Margaret turned to Carrie. "Carrie, if you want, you can just head up to your room and read. I don't think Margaret wants to eat tonight. She's a little distressed. If you want, you can stay home tomorrow and say it's a fever; I'm afraid your mother can't be trusted alone right now."

"Yes, ma'am." Carrie gently got up from the table and passed through the threshold of the hall, making her way into the living room. The syllabi were placed on the desk next to Margaret's tracts, and her old satchel rested on the sofa. She snatched the handle and swiftly rummaged through the contents. She had a novel from the library she could read, a few textbooks, and a _Seventeen _magazine she secretly bought from the fundraiser stand in the outdoor walkway. She could catch up on some reading, as well as—

Inside the first few pages of her AP Biology textbook, Jennifer's slovenly Sharpie digits rested underneath.

Carrie strode through the threshold against and saw her mother scrub at the wall. When Margaret looked at her and smiled, Carrie felt at ease. "Ma'am, may I please call someone? It's a girl I met at school."

"Oh, yes! That's perfectly fine," Margaret cooed. "See? I told you making friends would be easy for you."

Carrie, feeling a pensive flutter in her lungs: "Why?"

"You're very kind and pretty. I'm surprised more people haven't noticed that."

Carrie walked towards the phone, letting those words sink in. Even on their calm days, she never recalled Margaret acting so generous in regards to complimenting her own child. At most, Carrie would be called Modest, but most of the time, she talked about how she feared Carrie would be Tempted so easily, like the Whore of Babylon that was Mary Magdalene herself. Blinking back an unusual glitter in her eyes, Carrie dialed the number and waited for the call to connect.

The prayer closet was shut, and judging by the lack of light that poured through the cracks, the light was off. The altar-candles were not lit, Jonathan Edwards's famous sermon was tucked away in a drawer, and the leering blue light above a statuette of Jesus's dying body had died out. Momma's Angry God went to bed tonight.

Finally, the ringing stopped, and Carrie perked. However, she reached the voicemail instead: _Hey, byotch! Jennifer's checked out, so leave a message if you want me to hit you up later. Baiii!_

Carrie hung up, resting her head against the closet's doorjamb. She choked back the burning feeling in her throat, rubbing her eyes. Margaret hummed with mechanical content, finishing up her errand and picking up the scattered pieces of the broken plate. Carrie looked back at her once, in awe over the dark cloud's absence. Knowing how abrupt this change was, Carrie nodded to herself, picked up the phone, and dialed the number again.

After the voicemail: "Hey…um, Jennifer. It's me, Carrie. I'm calling from my home phone. I don't have a cellphone, I'm sorry. I couldn't make it to the Jamboree because of…stuff…but I still wanted to call and tell you…thanks. I want to be friends with you. I'll talk to you later. Um…baiii."

As Carrie hung the phone back on the switchhook, she walked up behind Margaret and regarded her with a kiss on the forehead. "I'm going to go to my room."

"Good," Margaret said. "Be in bed before midnight, please. I'll see if I can make a midnight snack to save in the fridge in case you get hungry soon."

Carrie smiled, kissed her again, and turned to go upstairs. Margaret pursued the mess again, throwing away the trash and humming her unusual tune again. However, something didn't seem unusual this time. It seemed (what) Good, like her Momma always wanted it to be. Carrie felt tears run down her cheeks, and as she wiped them away, she forgot what made her cry in the first place.

* * *

**A/N: So, after months on end of frustration, drinking, and a few crises here and there, I finally have the fourth chapter up! I did it as a bit of a Mother's Day gift since my mom hasn't read any of my writing in a few months due to tons of schoolwork I had to get done. Thankfully, though, since Summer is fast-approaching, I'll have more time to work on this. :)**

**I hope you liked this chapter, there really will be more coming your way, and I'll see ya later. Happy Mother's Day!**

**peace xx**

**(P.S. yes, the "syllabuses" was intentional, as it was meant to be a grammatical mistake on Carrie's part)**


	6. 5: A Kindred Spirit

**DISCLAIMER: Stephen King owns **_**Carrie**_**, Diablo Cody owns **_**Jennifer's Body**_**, and I own this ball of lint. DON'T TOUCH IT.**

* * *

When Carrie woke up in the morning and made her way down the stairs, a foreign light washed over her. Of course, the deluge of nostalgic, golden sunlight spilling into the family room egged it on, but after rising above the subterrestrial sleep-muzz, an epiphanic memory overwhelmed her. She knew about the fork, the radio, and the antenna; they were accustomed to the latent hysterics that were brought on by the Plague. However, she remembered seeing Momma stop the minute she yelled at her. In the cage of infinite babyhood memories, she's always seen her Momma in such a state for hours rather than a few minutes. She also remembered (importunity and tears o impotence of haply had ends above my all in flames) the fluid transition from standard, unadorned thought to omniscient voices that echoed in her wandering skull.

Margaret sat on the far end of the sofa, her dresses left unfinished. Three pins were missing from the tomato pincushion, and with how Margaret massaged her hand, Carrie just shook her head. Carrie checked for voices again, but only found a perplexing community of slovenly-drawn stars, wings flying without a body, a burning cross setting fire to all religious insignias, picking a single fish apart to find it had bread for organs, a woman with no genitals reaching an unusual precipice upon seeing a butterfly fly away from in between her legs— voices were also present, some human and comforting (o child calm your nerves i scared i hear a thunder no scared you're a brave girl let's go make a thunder cake), and some too grotesque to be concrete.

Carrie searched for an obstruction and, at first, couldn't see one, but it didn't take long before the cold table she mistook for the Whites' dining room caught her eye. An embellished display of foods she heard about from word of mouth decorated the table, but seeing them in her own home caught her unawares: a warm, spongy stack of waffles, dappled in thick syrup; scrambled eggs, bacon, and hash browns that sizzled whenever you prodded at them; a bowl of dry Froot Loops, chilled fruit in a Tupperware dish, and a complimentary glass of milk. A dizzy giggle came out of her, as if she was aware that she was in a dreamlike half-sleep and found the absurdity to be too funny to seem palpable.

However, there was a note resting against the milk, damped from the glass's sweat. Before Carrie could even decipher it, she knew who was out at the time. The handwriting was cursive, written in fiber-tip ink, and spoke to her in an complaisant lilt.

_Morning, sweets! You've hardly eaten anything as of late…perhaps you needed a back-to-school treat in order to cheer you up. Margaret's fine. She's just a little shaken up, but I'll make sure she won't come back until she has calmed down. I called some of your teachers, and the only major thing you need to do is write your essay about your summer reading—Margaret had a few choice words about the Divine Comedy, I tell ya!—and you can transcribe it into a digital copy at school on Monday. Have a lovely weekend! Miss Lucy xx_

Carrie set the note down, looked the buffet before her, and prodded at the stack of waffles with a fork. It had gone cold immediately. On the other side of the table, there wasn't another plate or set of utensils to join her.

The phone rang.

Margaret let out a smothered cry, grasping for an animalistic sound and failing in the process. Carrie ignored it at first, but then (baiii) it came to her again. She approached the phone, waited for Margaret to return, and picked it up when she didn't.

"H-hello?" Carrie stammered. The remaining pins in the pincushion depressed further into the woolen fabric; the steel needle bobbed against the machine bed, rising to a clamor. Margaret did not stir. "Jennifer, are you there?"

Silence nestled against the speaker for a moment. Carrie waited for a response, but a ghastly thought prickled in the back of her head, causing an ache in her neck. Was this a new conspiracy? Was this New Girl acquainted with the Ultras and their rapacious Mortimer Snerd performances? A mantle clock in the living room, resting on gilded claw feet, topped over, letting out a confused _tock_ before the glass cracked and dispersed. The curtains glided across the windowsill, flirting with Margaret's bony knees; the windows rippled throughout the house, and the idea of a startling implosion mollified the black flower within, whose petals ruffled in response to another anxious seed she planted.

Fragmented hellos and a raucous audience in the background: "_Hey-ey_. How's it hanging?"

(o)

The sewing machine was silenced. The clock came back from the dead, resuming its rightful place on the mantle amongst other homely trinkets. The window stopped rippling, the pins stayed still, and the flower of thought, though in full bloom, hushed as the vinelike stems tried to coil around her legs, pulling her down as quick as a sly foot in the hall.

"I'm OK…was about to eat breakfast. Where are you?"

"At Waffle House, getting breakfast after assembly and never coming back," Jennifer smirked. A soprano squeal punctuated the background noises. Jennifer shouted back, "Hey, fuck off! I'm talking to someone!"

A vague sound (don't do me like that wanna have a bowl of that cereal)—Carrie jumped when she saw the glass of milk totter over the edge of the table. It fell, but was caught mid-air; Carrie gently set it back on the coaster, gathering any spilt milk into a ball and dropping it into the glass with a splatter.

Carrie glanced at her mother once. Margaret shook her head, wincing as she pressed her thumb against her aching palm. Her eyes wandered to the ceiling, as of coming to grips with the daily throes of mysticism within an inner world.

The laughter and clatter of china drowned once a door slammed, and now all Carrie could hear in the background was a crisp rustle of leaves in the pre-autumntime wind. Jennifer sighed, relieved. "Okay, what's up?"

"Who were you with?"

"Oh, no one important—"

"Who were you _with?_" A festering earnestness poked through Carrie's soles, drawing reluctant beads of blood. She looked at Margaret again, and she was disturbed at how this vitriolic sensation brought forth a stunning resemblance between them.

Jennifer again: "Chillax, Jezebel. It was just Chris and her sex toys—I mean, friends…and her _actual _sex toy."

(o that) "Really? I thought you didn't like them."

"Ehh. I think she's a few drops of cheese less compared to other french fries in the container, but her other lackeys are all right."

"Then go back to them," Carrie said with sudden guilt. "I don't want to hold you back."

"No," Jennifer said. "I want to talk to you."

Carrie's gut descended. "R…really?"

"Yeah. You skip out on the Jamboree, you didn't go to the football game—which we _sucked_ at, I should add—and all you did was leave a pissy voicemail for me to get back to in the middle of my hangover. We have _a lot_ to catch up on, hun."

"Oh." Carrie felt heat cross her face like the eye of a storm. "Well, where should we start?"

"Well, for starters," Jennifer said, adding a surly sweetness to the conversation, "I think I need to ask why your mother held you back yesterday. I didn't see you at school."

The glass shattered, milk and glass spraying against the floor. "How did you know?"

"Just a guess," Jennifer remarked. "I mean, you didn't look sick yesterday. All I heard from Grayle when asked about it was there were severe _family issues _and my guess is any family that has some fish-symbol on their car always has an issues, so…"

"Um." Carrie turned away from the receptor to snigger at her comment; and then, returning: "I suppose."

"Don't sweat it. I remember a time my mom went all menopausal one night and I had to stay home in order to look after her. She was depressed, her joints ached, and she spent all night sweating. It was so gross."

"Well, why'd you stay?"

Jennifer clicked her tongue. "Because it was the right thing to do, I suppose. The apple doesn't fall far from the tree, so now's not the time to become wormchow. So, what's up with _your _Holy Carrier?"

"My mom's kind of…" From the tail end of her eye, Carrie saw Margaret clapping her hands together in a sluggish rhythm. A garbled, giggling song came out of her, lilting with verbose girlhood. "Well, she's a little unwell."

"Mmm. Paranoid schizophrenic?"

"Excuse me?"

"I'm sorry," Jennifer said, mock-apologetic. "I heard Chris and Tina say something about how your mother is a schizophrenic bat that's been living in a cave this whole time, but I wondered if they were just being cruel bitches about something real or were just running their traps."

"Running their traps," Carrie retorted.

"It's like a NASCAR race to see who talks the most and who says the dumbest things."

Carrie, with sudden brusqueness: "No, they're outmatched in that area. I think it's the amount of blowjobs they give that is tallied in a competition."

Carrie clapped a hand over her mouth, gnawing on a callus. As Jennifer brayed the same jovial amount of laughter she did yesterday, Carrie felt a numb sense of powerlessness, reprimanding herself for uttering something as filthy as the Eff Word. Something coerced her into saying it, raping all common sense and letting everyone land on the four-corner space that says GO TO JAIL. The dark floweret bloomed further, and the thought of flipping the cold table over (no stop that) wasn't so far-off at this point.

Before the table could even levitate, Jennifer finally caught her breath. "Good—fucking—_God_, you're funny!"

"I am?" Carrie heard the word funny before (she's so funny miss yellow-belly fartface ol prayin carrie so funny look it's a look such a funny-looking look).

"Yeah. You make me laugh."

"So, not funny as in weird or ugly?"

"Why would I call you any of those things?" Another awkward silence came between them, but Carrie mulled over the genuine uneasiness in Jennifer's tone.

A new background noise ripped through the conversational lull: Chris slamming the door open, asking Jennifer if she wants to trigger her sepsis or what, Jackie Talbot saying he won't eat all of Jennifer's waffles if she'll let him taste a _certain _waffle, Tina shrieking at him with laughter, calling him a fucking pervert—Jennifer diffused them: "Hey, gimme a fucking minute, okay? I'm touching bases with someone."

Surprisingly enough, the ambience hushed as soon as she said that.

"Hey, Carrie?" Jennifer said, now alone. "I gotta head back. I'm gonna hang out with these losers for the weekend, but can you _try _to talk to me at school on Monday?"

"I don't get it."

"What do you mean? It's called communication, it's not always done with words—"

"No," Carrie snapped, plaintively honest. "I mean, if you're hanging out with the Ultras and preps and bad boys and so on…why does _my _approval matter?"

"Because you're real."

Carrie stopped, nonplused. Without much cohesion, the glass began to piece itself together again. Each shard snapped back in place, announcing its return with loud, pronged crackles. The milk had stained already, but it evaporated like ice in the June sunshine.

Finally, she spoke. "Ohuh?"

Jennifer sighed. "Look, believe me or not, this isn't just some hipster bullshit I found on a Tumblr e-card in order to make you feel good about yourself. When a lot of outsiders like to out themselves as some sage minor that feels as though they've honed their wisdom because of the harshness of their peers...well, frankly, I think that's stupid. No one is special, and no one is worthless. We're _all _shitting from the same asshole here. However, I _would _be remiss if I were to say none of these teens at Ewen are fake. You're not, and I'm not, either, so I admire that."

Carrie blushed again. "Oh...oh, hey, I—well, I've never been—i-it's not like, I mean…thank you."

Jennifer chuckled, but without rancorous humor this time. "Work on that enunciation, White. I'll see ya 'round. Baiii!"

Carrie mimicked her goodbye, hung up, and floundered right after. The tickle-me-pink innocence was written on her face, but she clung onto her cross necklace out of fear that Margaret would reach land-ho, see her blush, and go into cycles about the Something and how the Smell comes after Color. However, her mother still clapped her hands and sang nursery rhymes under her breath, eyes focused on the ceiling. Walking towards the table, Carrie picked up the glass, went over to the kitchen sink, and washed it thoroughly. She picked up another glass, snatched a bottle of milk from the refrigerator, and poured a refill for herself.

Sitting down at the table once more, she prodded at her waffles again. It was piping hot, as was most of the food, and the temperature never faltered as Carrie dined on her breakfast as if it were the Last Supper.

* * *

**A/N: Ayyyyyyyye, I'm still alive! :D**

**So, a lot of kinetic mind-play here! There's Carrie's telekinesis, and some implications about our favorite succubus snowflake queen, Jennifer**—**and, of course, whatever the hell is goin on with Margaret. o.o**

**On a bit of a serious note, yay, I'm alive…went off my 10mg of Lexapro, currently on 20mg (soon-to-be 40mg) of Viibryd, and super-duper manic amidst a storm of rapid-cycling, but alive nonetheless! I'm finally done with school (finished on Tuesday), and spent the last couple days resting up. I went to my old school's graduation yesterday to see old friends, and boiii, did I LOVE making those prissy little teachers and faculty members that stigmatized me in the first place **_**so dang nervous!**_ **XD**

**My plan for today is to go to one of my friends' house party to celebrate her graduating, come home, and either watch **_**The Wolf of Wall Street **_**for the first time, or just listen to some scary-as-shit PIFs as background while I write more chapters. Either way, I passed Junior Year, my summertime has started now, and I see more frequent updates in the future! Baiii for now! :)**

**peace xx**


	7. Update

So…this story. Am I continuing it or not? Simple answer: yes and no.

Yes, I do intend on continuing this story. I genuinely like the premise of this story. This meek, sheltered girl finds personal empowerment through telekinesis, and then she befriends a more extroverted, promiscuous girl who's, in actuality, a bloodthirsty succubus? Not only is the idea really funny, but it also presents a lot of interesting scenarios. Bottom line, I feel as though I've invested way too much into this idea to stop now.

However, I plan on rewriting this entire story. The same premise still stands, but I feel as though I could tweak a lot of aspects about this story and thus restore its initial potential. Pardon me if I'm being too self-critical of my own work, but I look back on how I wrote it, and I feel oddly dissatisfied with it. It's not that it's necessarily bad, but I feel as though there are certain flaws that could easily be improved (the pacing, the characters' actions, etc).

Another aspect about this is I started writing this story during a period of time where I was going through a lot of teenage angst over being one of the unpopular kids and was an overall cynic about life in general, which definitely reflects in my writing. Now that I'm a college student and the typical high school bullshit is behind me now, I have a bit more of a pragmatic viewpoint of it. I mean, I started this story back in 2014, and now 2016 is almost over…a lot can happen in two years. I've gained a lot of perspective on certain topics, I've matured quite a bit (not fully, but it's a start!), and I'm working on making sure my writing is more nuanced than before. I still intend on capturing a lot of the tumultuous, sophomoric emotions that come with the territory, but I'm planning on showing a change in attitude within the narrative as the story goes on, as if to represent the characters maturing throughout the course of the plot.

Now that I've covered that, I think I ought to explain why I keep going off the grid every time it seems as though I start to get on a writing kick again.

I've made mention of it before, but in case you didn't know, I deal with a lot in my personal life. I often have a lot going on with school and personal life issues going on, and a good chunk of that includes severe issues with my mental health. That combined with busy, busy life shit ranging from typical schoolwork to dealing with traumatic things that have happened to me then and now, it's often hard for me to motivate myself and get the wheels turning so easily.

2015 was an absolutely _awful _year for me. I had to switch to a new school, I dealt with two cyberstalkers, my relationship with my parents was severely fractured (and it still kind of is), I wasn't sure if we were going to have to sue the principal and counselor for ignoring my disability accommodations, and I attempted suicide by overdose twice. So, naturally, I couldn't make sincere promises about when any new chapters would be out. This is not meant to be an excuse, but rather an explanation as to why 2015 was an incredibly slow year for me.

However, to 2015's credit, at least I still wrote some. 2016 has been a better year for me in a lot of respects, but due to both hefty schoolwork and a major transition to college, I didn't have time to focus on my writing for awhile. Also, to be completely honest, I just lost a lot of confidence in my writing, as I often do. I always set such lofty goals for myself that when I can't get it done, I feel like I'll never turn out anything good and I give up on it. Lately, though, I've been motivating myself more and more to write again. In fact, I've been working on a big project of mine as of late (it's a retelling of Melanie Martinez's _Cry Baby _story). While I work on that, as well as a few ideas I've harvested in the meantime, I'll be sure to work on this story.

So, the basic gist is that I'm going to write down a list of everyone who has followed/favorited this story, and then when I've rewritten the first bit of "High School Evil", I'll delete this story and alert them all of the new story being posted. I know it's a bit annoying, but I didn't want to delete this story and then leave those who were hoping for it to be continued wondering what happened. That would be unfair.

Anyways, I'll work on it when I can, so please be patient as I go back to the drawing board. Take care!

peace xx


End file.
